


where you sleep at night

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Bickering, Cleaning, F/F, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24573955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Isabela’s sick, her room's a mess, and Aveline doesn’t have the patience for this.
Relationships: Isabela/Aveline Vallen
Comments: 24
Kudos: 45





	where you sleep at night

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly beta'd by [Mytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha), without whom Aveline would never have found the wooden phalluses. <3

“Go away, I’m dying.”

“No. And no. A dead woman wouldn’t make this mess,” Aveline mutters, stepping over an apple that is little more than applesauce encased in a bag of wrinkled skin. She navigates Isabela’s room by stepping from patch to patch of bare floor, like stepping stones in a river of scattered fabrics. They’re either scarves or skirts, but she wouldn’t put it past Isabela to forget which is which. “Besides, didn’t you tell Merrill you were _perfectly fine_?”

Aveline intends her tone to cut diamonds, but Isabela is made of sterner stuff.

Damn her.

“I didn’t want her to get sick,” Isabela says morosely. She sounds like a clogged sewer drain.

Aveline grits her teeth as she eases herself onto the sagging mattress. Isabela’s curled in on herself, limbs tangled in the sheets and one bare toe peeking from the covers. Isabela even _smells_ sick; sour and fusty, her eyes too bright and her hair a brittle cloud on the pillow. Aveline presses the back of her wrist to Isabela’s temple, resisting the urge to brush Isabela’s sweat-damp strands from her scalp.

“Jug of water, mug of tea, I’ll be right as rain,” Isabela mumbles, never mind that Aveline could boil a kettle off her forehead.

Aveline grimaces, kicking a bottle out from under Isabela’s bed. Something sloshes inside. “That’s water?”

“Girls make do,” Isabela says vaguely. Her upper lip is damp with sweat, though her mouth is dry and cracked. One side of her cheek is not just creased, but _dented_ from sleeping on the pillow.

Aveline pinches the bridge of her nose and counts to ten.

By the time she reaches ‘seven,’ she’s already composed a list of tasks.

She starts by giving Isabela water. From Aveline’s own flask, as she doesn’t trust the vessels in the room or the Hanged Man’s hygiene standards. The beer’s the safest thing to drink that isn’t boiled, but Aveline will boil herself before giving beer to an invalid. Lips wet, cheeks flushed, Isabela snores a crescendo as Aveline threshes her way through the room. This is her first time in Isabela’s quarters, never mind that Isabela has crashed her way through Aveline’s door and up-ended Aveline’s belongings on _multiple_ occasions, and Aveline can’t pretend there isn’t a certain satisfaction in reversing the roles. Toss, keep, wash—she feels a twinge of guilt in case she accidentally throws out some treasured possession, but skewers it as her foot lands in something wet and squishy. Jewelry is kept, clothes are washed, and anything that leaks is given a new home in the midden.

“Oh. We have a cleaning service now?” goggles an ill-dressed man on Aveline’s second trip down the stairs.

“Not if you want to keep your teeth.”

He’s still puzzling that one out as Aveline brings out Isabela’s dishes, stacked and mismatched and bearing dried smears of gravy or lone peas. It costs an apology and an advance on Isabela’s rent to exchange them for an armful of clean rags. Plainly relieved that _someone_ ’ _s_ cleaning up Isabela’s sty, Corff even promises to send up a fresh kettle and hot broth.

Isabela’s still snoring, a line of drool going down her chin, and Aveline scrubs down her dresser, her rickety table—is that one of Varric’s books propping up that wobbly leg?—and gouges clean streaks into the fine gray dust coating everything.

“How do you _live_ like this?” Aveline mutters, gathering the cobwebs into thick veils. A seven-legged spider scurries to safety, and Aveline catches it in an empty tankard.

Isabela’s only response is a bubble of saliva.

Despite Isabela’s vast detritus of—well, _stuff_ , mostly junk—shockingly little of it is personal. There’s a bracelet of paint-spattered beads that could have been bought off any Lowtown vendor, two dented tins with labels are worn beyond recognition, and a set of obviously marked playing cards. Aveline amends this thought as she pulls a withered flower crown from beneath the dresser; shockingly little of it is _necessary_.

Aveline pries open the window, scowling at the wooden slats. The sill is gritty with dirt, dead flies scattered about and droppings streaked on the outside shutters. The grey day is sudden-bright after the dimness of Isabela’s room, but the clouds aren’t thick enough to promise rain. Even if it does, it’s unlikely to be the scouring rain necessary to wash away the stale aromas of fish, urine, and accumulated harbor muck. Aveline wrinkles her nose against the smell, and drops the spider out the window. Hopefully it won’t be eaten by a bird.

Aveline wonders if Isabela has ever owned anything that couldn’t be taken away from her. Isabela could drop out the window with just the knives on her body and the coin in her purse, and be as free as ever. What is a string of glass beads or an Antivan puzzle box, next to that?

Aveline wonders if _she_ ever has. It’s not as if she could drop out the window with her copper kettle or new spice rack.

Aveline does not consider herself a collector of needless sentiment, but she has already been forced to abandon much. There was Wesley’s illuminated Chantry verse, now ash or mouldering in darkspawn gore. There was the needlepoint from their first—their only—shared home. It depicted a templar’s sword, blade down, set against a shield. Because what is a home, if not a place of safety?

One drawer apparently contains Isabela’s sewing supplies. Aveline stabs six needles through a square of brown paper, then rolls two spools of thread into compact rounds. One black, one white, and she makes a note to buy blue and red for Isabela’s love of color. There is also a dented tin, holding a dusting of sugar and memories of sweetness. Aveline empties the tin and packs the needles and spools inside. A scattered handful of buttons are dropped in like alms.

The next drawer contains a collection of wooden phalluses.

Aveline immediately slams it shut.

Isabela stirs, roused by the noise, but Aveline ignores her. One can’t mind every fuss Isabela makes; it only encourages her.

“You got rid of the spider,” Isabela says, weak but accusing.

“I got rid of the webs.”

“Ariadne was my _friend_.”

“I released her outside.”

Isabela chuckles, snotty with bad humor. “Softy.”

“ _I_ didn’t name her.”

A soft knock; Corff has brought the broth and hot water. Aveline takes it, then sits on the edge of the mattress with spoon in hand, waiting for Isabela to sit up. When Isabela doesn’t, Aveline taps her shoulder.

“Not hungry.”

“Just some fluids. Two sips.”

Isabela bares her teeth at her, too listless for a proper snarl, but pushes herself vaguely upright. Aveline props one hand under Isabela’s shoulder, and as the sheet slides down Isabela’s bosom she abruptly realizes that Isabela isn’t wearing a stitch.

“Why do you have no clothes on?” Aveline snaps, attempting to cover her fluster as she hastily draws the sheet back up Isabela’s shoulder.

“Because I’m in _bed_ and wasn’t expecting to _entertain_ ,” Isabela bites out. Then snickers, bad humor doing more to enliven her than hot broth. “Though most entertainment’s better without clothes.”

The sheet slips from Isabela’s shoulder, displaying a generous slope of breast before giving up completely and exposing her nipples. Aveline feels her cheeks heat up, trying very carefully not to notice Isabela’s abundant areolas. Maker, are those _piercings_?

“Two sips,” she repeats woodenly.

Isabela takes two spoonfuls of broth, then licks her lips. She opens her mouth again, but doesn’t say anything. Aveline blinks at her, uncertain, before Isabela rolls her eyes.

“I’ll take a third. If you’ve got it.”

Isabela drinks her third spoonful, then her fourth. Aveline stops counting the spoons, just keeps feeding Isabela until Isabela finally shakes her head and lies down.

“There’s water too. If you’d like.”

Isabela shrugs, tucking the sheets under her arms in loose folds.

“Tea?”

Isabela snorts. “Stop mothering me. You’re not the type.”

“I’m not your mother, I’m your _friend_.”

“You’re a pain in my arse, is what you are.” Isabela shuts her eyes, mouth hanging open as she exhales with a gusty wheeze.

Aveline sighs, putting aside the broth.

She assumes Isabela’s fallen asleep again, and takes the dirty rags back down to Corff. She then commandeers the mop and bucket from the kitchen, and swabs Isabela’s room free of stains and smells. There is a mysterious sticky residue in one corner that resists the mop, so Aveline curses under her breath and gets on her hands and knees, scrubbing adamantly. It smells like vinegar.

“Ooh, look at you. Ass in the air. In _my_ room. How beautiful and lurid,” Isabela sighs.

Aveline curses, no longer under her breath. “I still don’t know how you can live like this. This is your _home_.”

“It’s not home. It’s just where I sleep at night.”

Aveline looks sharply at her. It’s the sort of truth that cuts bone, but Isabela tosses the words out carelessly, eyes half-lidded as she watches Aveline with a dull curiosity. Like she’s still bewildered that—that—

“You don’t care, do you,” Aveline says softly.

Isabela sighs. “It’s—you know what, I’m being an ungrateful little shit. Thank you, Mother Aveline, for all the sweeping and dusting and cleaning. Besides,” she adds, and when she smiles it still lights up her eyes, never mind the sour-sick smell clinging to her skin or the stale sleep on her breath, “You’re right, you’re not my mother. You wouldn’t sell me for two hands of silver, would you?”

Aveline snorts, heart prickling with unfamiliar warmth. Trying not to dwell on the horror behind Isabela’s flippancy. If Isabela can make light of it, surely Aveline can do the same. “You’re right. Why sell someone else the pleasure of tormenting you?”

“Yes, tormenting me.” Isabela rolls her eyes, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “With your soup and your scrubbing and your stupid efforts to take care of me. Thank you.”

Aveline chuckles, and it’s like unclenching her teeth. Deescalating from a fight she hadn’t known she was anticipating. “You’re welcome, wench.”

Isabela moans breathlessly. “Ooh, I love when you talk dirty.”

Aveline finally manages to lift the stubborn stain, glowing with satisfaction. Absolutely with satisfaction, not with giddy uncertainty as she dares, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting.”

“Who says I’m not?” Isabela shoots back.

Aveline swallows a laugh. “You’re obviously delirious with illness.”

“Ha! Better kiss me before I come to my senses.”

Aveline turns, and Isabela puckers her lips, batting her lashes. The pucker transforms into a grin, only growing wider as Aveline straightens up, walking over to the bed. Aveline slides a hand under Isabela’s head, gently lifting. Isabela’s eyes close, mouth falling open in with soft expectation, and Aveline leans forward, her breath brushing Isabela’s forehead—

And Aveline turns the pillow beneath Isabela’s head, setting Isabela down onto the cool cushion.

Isabela groans, loud and lamenting. “You are a _tease_ , Aveline. A wanton _tease_.”

“I won’t take advantage of an invalid,” Aveline says, trying to keep her tone light. She wipes her suddenly-damp palms against her trousers. “But if you’d still like that kiss after you’ve come to your senses…”

Isabela’s lips turn in a wicked smile, sharp with promise. “Oh, I will.”


End file.
